


Transatlantic

by iworshipyou_oliver



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Armie is divorced, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, One Shot, horribly in love with one another, they are blind idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 16:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iworshipyou_oliver/pseuds/iworshipyou_oliver
Summary: After Armie's divorce, he and Timmy take a flight to London together. Circumstances have them acting the part of a couple, which is all very well except that Armie has some feelings that he hasn't really dealt with...





	Transatlantic

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about all the Britishisms! Hope you enjoy ❤️

Timmy looks the usual amount of horribly nervous, eyes flicking back and forth watching as people manoeuvre up and down the aisle, jostling for space in the overhead lockers. His knee jiggles restlessly and his fingers tighten around the water bottle he's holding, making the plastic crackle slightly.

Armie leans over. "It's good we'll have extra space," he says, trying to distract him. By this point he and Timmy have been on so many flights together that he's developed a few strategies to help him cope. The air stewardess has already informed them that, since they're in business class, there won't be anyone seated between them today, so they'll have extra room to stretch out.

"Mmm." Timmy gives him a tight, absent little smile. "Yeah. You need the leg room."

Armie smiles easily. "So do you. Hopefully you can get some sleep." He runs his thumb across the bare place on the third finger of his left hand, now empty of both the ring and the tattoo that he'd worn for so long. It's become a habit in the past few months, this gesture. He's still sometimes surprised by their absence.

Timmy gives him a wry look. "Huh. Yeah, maybe."

"I've seen you manage to sleep sometimes," returns Armie gently. "You'll be fine."

"I know." Timmy shifts in his chair, wrapping his arms around his stomach, hunching his shoulders. "I know it's dumb."

"Hey. It's not dumb." Armie turns in his seat, moving his feet into the centre space between them, stretching his legs a little. The one problem with the unexpected extra leg room is that now he's further from Tim, and it'll be harder to unobtrusively lean against him, or take his hand if he's panicking during takeoff, landing or turbulence. He tries not to examine his own disappointment about that too closely. _I'm just worried for him. Don't want him to be alone with his anxiety._ "Have you got your headphones? I've got spare earphones, if you need them."

Timmy pulls his chunky noise-cancelling headphones from his backpack and holds them up in demonstration, then drops them onto the middle seat between them, along with his phone. The screen lights as he drops it, showing Armie a notification of a message from someone called Emma. His stomach tightens and he looks quickly away, fiddling with the level of the window blind even though he knows he'll be asked to raise it again for takeoff.

_Stop it. It's probably just a friend. He's got a lot of friends and anyway, even if it was a girlfriend, what business would that be of yours? He'd tell you if he wanted to. He's so open he'd probably have told you already if he was dating someone._

Somehow, the thought fails to comfort him.

"I'm glad we get to take the flight together," says Timmy. He sounds tentative, as though unsure whether to interrupt Armie's thoughts.

Armie turns to give him a soft, genuine smile. "Me too. Good timing." They'd both happened to be in NYC at the same time, and both be attending the BAFTAs in London; it made sense to fly together.

"It's—it's been too long since I last saw you, man." Timmy's voice is a little off the breezy tone he seems to be trying for, but Armie can see how anxious he is about the flight.

"Yeah—yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's been crazy with work, and with…" Armie hesitates, rubbing the empty space on his finger again. "You know. Settling into the new routine. Finding a place that was good for the kids as well as me when I have them, and—" he shrugs, looking down at his hands. "There was a lot of stuff to get moved. So much fucking stuff. You'll be glad to hear I threw away most of my clothes."

Timmy huffs a laugh. "Shit, really? And you didn't call me to see which ones you should keep?"

Armie grins and looks up to catch his eye, surprised to see an edge of hurt alongside the amusement, quickly tucked away.

"Sorry. Didn't know you'd be interested." He keeps his tone light, but in truth he's missed Timmy badly over the past few months. They've texted, and FaceTimed occasionally, but it's mostly just been quick catch-ups, not anything more in-depth.

"And—and how's your new place?" asks Timmy, quickly. "Do Harper and Ford like it?"

Armie smiles. "Honestly? As soon as they figured out they had new bedrooms to decorate, they seemed good with it."

"Ha. Right. Kid logic."

Shrugging, Armie fishes his phone and earphones out of his pocket and deposits them next to Tim's on the seat between them. "Gotta love it."

"What did they go for?"

Armie groans slightly. "Oh, god. Harper went _super_ pink and frilly. I think she might be pedalling back a bit from that now though. She's got a new best friend at school who's more of a tomboy. She asked if she could have a treehouse the other day, and didn't like the answer that we'd need a tree first."

Timmy grins. "And Fordy?"

Armie tries not to melt. "I mean, I'm not totally sure he knew what we were doing? But it's kind of jungle-y. Green. Lots of animals. Most of them _definitely_ don't live in jungles."

"Cool. I'll have to come see them sometime."

"They'd love that." Armie can hear the surprise in his own voice. "I mean—you don't have to, I know it's not exactly—" he shrugs. _It's kind of far from your star-studded life, Chalamet, hanging out with my kids._

Timmy looks at him curiously, as if he has no idea what Armie's talking about. "Harper's still at the same school, right?"

Armie nods. "Yep. Nothing different apart from—you know." He glances away. When he meets Timmy's eyes again, they're soft hazel and full of compassion.

Timmy bites his lip and presses his thumb against the water bottle, making it crackle again. "Yeah, I'm—I know I've said, but—I'm sorry, man." He stares down at the water bottle in his hands. "I hope you're—hope you're okay." He doesn't look up.

Armie's surprised by the pain he sees on Timmy's face. _I'm fine,_ he's about to say—and mean it—but then the announcement system comes to life, the video screens in front of them playing the airline introduction movie. The captain welcomes everyone and passes over to the team of stewards and stewardesses, who run through the security drill. Timmy watches it avidly, as he always does, _as if it's going to do anything other than heighten his anxiety,_ Armie thinks.

Once the security drill is over, the plane starts to taxi slowly towards the runway while the host team move along the aisle, checking people's seatbelts, tables and hand luggage. Armie remembers to put his window blind back up before he's asked, then sees how Timmy has gone totally still, a stark contrast to the wriggly tension he's been in for the past half hour.

"What are you going to listen to during takeoff?" asks Armie, casually.

Timmy gives him a tight smile. His breathing’s a little off, and Armie can tell he’s struggling to keep down his nerves.

"Actually I'm listening to _Rebecca,"_ he says. "So I'm ready."

Armie doesn't know if the look he gives him is too fond. "You don't have to watch it, Chalamet."

Timmy rolls his eyes. "Shut up dude. You know I'm your number one fan."

"I know. It's ridiculous."

 _“Ridiculous?_ Hammer, I swear to god I don't know what goes on in your brain sometimes.” Timmy takes a shaky breath, reaching out for his headphones, plugging them into his phone. “I’m...I’m going to start listening now. Before…” he trails off and doesn't finish the sentence.

Armie nods. “Sure.” He grabs his own phone, stretching his legs into the center again. Timmy does the same, not so their feet are touching, but not too far away.

Armie thinks about all the flights they took together on the _Call Me_ promo tour. How it had become a normal thing for him to take Timmy's hand at takeoff and landing, just to give him comfort.

How strange it had felt whenever Elizabeth had been with them, and he couldn't do that. How he'd never _quite_ been able to square with himself why—if it was just for comfort—he couldn't have done it with his wife there too.

The stark knowledge of what an idiot he'd been doesn't help now, of course. It hadn't been because of Tim that their marriage had failed; he realises now that he'd never have ended up feeling this way about someone else if there hadn’t been some deep-rooted, long-ignored problems. But the fact is irrevocable: like half of the rest of the planet, he's in love with Timothée Chalamet, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

 _It doesn't go away,_ he thinks, despairingly, picking music to listen to. _It never fucking goes away. We haven't even been talking as much as usual in the last couple months and yet...every time I see him—even get a text from him—it's just as strong as ever._

_Timmy's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him. I need to get control of this before I fuck up my friendship with one of the most precious people in my life._

_It doesn't help that he looks like that, though._ Armie looks over at him: black jeans and a black hoodie, big brown boots that he'd had to take off going through security—revealing the baby pink socks beneath—and long tousled curls. He's got his eyes closed, an anxious frown line between his brows. Armie has no idea why the knowledge of the baby pink socks makes him want to kiss Timmy so much, but it does.

_Although when don't I want to kiss him._

The plane's in position at the end of the runway, and the engines start to roar with more intent. Armie sees Timmy swallow, Adam's apple bobbing in his slim, delicate neck. Armie wishes desperately he could take Timmy's hand, help him through takeoff.

Timmy's hands are knotted together in his lap, knuckles white.

Armie has an idea. Shifts his legs a little, so that his foot touches Timmy's boot.

Surprised at the touch, Timmy opens his eyes. His anxious frown is still in place, but he looks enquiring, too. Armie's heart does a little flip in his chest.

"Hey," he mouthes, over the noise of the engines. "You okay?"

Timmy gives him a slightly despairing shrug, and a look that means, _what can I say._

Armie nods, commiserating. He moves his feet again, tangling them with Timmy's. Pressing them together.

Timmy's eyes go wide for a second, then he gives Armie a small smile. He presses Armie's foot in return, and his lips form a silent "thank you."

They take off like that, and Armie vows to himself just to move and sit next to Timmy for landing.

Once the plane's above the clouds the movement evens out a little and the seatbelt sign goes off. Armie sees Timmy relax slightly, though he knows he'll be anxious on and off throughout the flight, depending on turbulence.

 _Don't come off creepy. Move your feet._ Armie shifts position and pulls his feet away from Timmy's, reaching down to grab his backpack from under the seat in front. He takes out his book and bottle of water. When he looks up, Timmy's watching him with an expression he can't quite interpret.

"You gonna have a drink when they come round, Tim?" he asks. "Think I might have a beer."

Timmy shakes his head tightly. "Doesn't help. Just makes me worse during the turbulence." He rolls his eyes in frustration at himself, then clearly makes an attempt to distract himself with conversation. "What are you reading?"

Armie tips the cover towards him: _The Year of the Flood._

"Huh. Good?"

Armie nods. "Weird. Good. I like it more than the first in the series, although I think that might just be because I'm used to the weirdness now. You know I met her?"

Timmy nods. "Crazy, man." His eyes slide to his lap. "We studied her in school." He hasn't moved his feet at all.

"Handmaid's Tale?" asks Armie, with half a smile.

"Yeah, 'course." Timmy returns it. "Bet she's sick of people talking to her about it, with the TV show and everything."

"Have you watched—" begins Armie, but suddenly there's a squeal from the aisle next to Timmy.

"Oh my _god!_ Timmy? This is crazy!"

 _Oh, fuck no._ Armie had booked the plane tickets for them, and he'd hoped that by booking business class they might be able to avoid being hunted by wide-eyed Chalamet fans. _Apparently fucking not._

But—something seems a bit different about this. Timmy looks up and there's recognition in his face. And then a _blush._ Armie's stomach twists.

"Tania—uh—hey! Um—how are you?" he sounds supremely awkward.

"Oh my god, it's _so_ good to see you." She's pretty, a slim blonde with high cheekbones. She bends down to hug him at an awkward angle, so that he kind of ends up just patting her arm. "How are _you?"_

He runs a hand through his hair. "Oh—uh—fine, fine, yeah. Good. Um—so are you off to London, or…"

She shakes her head. "Just a stopover on the way to Edinburgh, visiting my dad. What about _you?"_ she touches his shoulder, and Armie swallows.

"Oh. London. BAFTAs, so." Timmy shrugs it away like he always does. He'd never say, _I've been nominated for an award._

"Yes, amazing," she says joyfully, not taking her hand off his shoulder. "That's so awesome. So, I messaged you on Instagram but I don't think you got it—you must get so many! Let me give you my number, you _have_ to text me. It'd be so good to catch up, maybe over coffee?" she smiles at him.

He smiles back, clearly on some kind of autopilot of his usual sweet manner. She holds out her hand for his phone, and he unlocks it, opening a new contact for her. She saves it and passes it back.

"So are you walking the red carpet alone?" she asks, in what is clearly meant to be an enticingly teasing manner. Jealous heat prickles down Armie's spine, but to be fair, he's really not picking up any answering vibes from Timmy. He just looks extremely uncomfortable.

"Oh, no," says Timmy brightly, and Armie watches with surprise as he sees Timmy start to _act._ "My boyfriend's been nominated too, so we'll be there together."

Armie's brain goes silent, filled with only one thought. _Boyfriend. Boyfriend. He's got a boyfriend._ He feels cold, suddenly.

"Tania, this is Armie. Armie, Tania." Timmy's hand is on his arm, now. On autopilot, Armie leans over and shakes Tania's hand.

She blinks, clearly dumbfounded.

Timmy takes Armie's hand, and winds their fingers together.

Armie blinks too, staring at their joined hands.

"Oh. Oh—right." She licks her lips. "So—how long have you guys been together?"

"Just a couple months," says Timmy, squeezing Armie's hand, turning to give him a smile. "But it's going great."

 _Me. He's talking about me. He's saying we're boyfriends—we're together._ Armie's brain seems to have stopped working. _He wants me to pretend._

_Jesus Christ. Fuck._

But there it is, because behind it all—behind the terrified sense of _I can't do this, this is dangerous, he'll see in a second how much, how desperately I want this_ —is that neverending sense of _rightness_ that Timmy's hand in his always produces.

Armie closes his eyes for a second, steeling himself. When he reopens them, the expression in Timmy's eyes is both worried and apologetic.

"Nice to meet you," says Armie pleasantly, smiling up at Tania. "How do you know Tim?"

"Oh," she says, giving Timmy a glowing look. _At least she's taken her hand off his shoulder,_ thinks Armie, trying not to grind his teeth. "We were at Columbia together."

"Briefly," adds Timmy, catching Armie's eye. "You know I wasn't there long."

Armie nods and smiles. "Right." He leaves a pause, and raises his eyebrows slightly at Tania. _Why are you still standing here?_

She doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving, but luckily the air stewardess comes by then to offer Armie and Timmy a selection of drinks and snacks—menu service, since they're in business class.

"See you later, then," says Timmy, when Tania is forced to move to the side, and somewhat reluctantly she walks away to her seat several rows back.

 _What, did she just see him and come over to talk? I assumed she was on her way to the toilet or something._ Armie's thoughts are interrupted by Timmy unwinding their fingers and dropping his hand. _Right. Yes. Pretending._

For the next couple minutes the air stewardess is talking to them and fixing their drinks; and then she's gone, and Timmy's staring at his glass of orange juice and pretzels, head bowed, biting his lip.

_Our PR got so bent out of shape about us touching during the promo tour. How the fuck is this going to work? What if this fucks up his career?_

Armie leans across the seat between them. "Tim, you realise she'll probably be tweeting that the second she gets off the plane?"

Timmy's eyes when he turns to look at him are tragic. He's blushing. "Fuck, Armie, I am so, so sorry, I just—I couldn't think, and there's kind of a—uh, a history, and…" he trails off, biting his lip again. "I'm so fucking sorry. I can try and talk to her before we get off, ask her not to say anything…"

 _A history._ Armie's stomach twists. "Tim—wait, I'll move over—"

"No no no," whispers Timmy, unbuckling his seatbelt immediately. "I'll move." He seems eager to save Armie any trouble. He shifts over into the centre seat, and Armie is assailed with the physical presence of him, the fresh scent of his shampoo.

"So what—what _history?"_ asks Armie, trying not to sound jealous.

"Oh, shit," mutters Tim. "We—I met her at some house party, at college. We—uh—" his eyes dart to Armie's for a second, then away again. "We made out at the party, but I had to leave early so it didn't—nothing else happened," he adds quickly, almost as though he needs to excuse himself. "But then...I don't know, it was weird, man. She found me on social media and she kept, you know, trying to talk to me and then kind of—uh—turning up? In places I'd be?" he looks as awkward as he always does when he can't ignore how people desire him. "And—I mean, it's not like it was _scary_ or anything, but I just wasn't…" he shrugs.

 _So it was scary, then,_ interprets Armie, well used to Timmy's habit of seeing the best in people, of always assuming the best intentions.

"It kind of went quiet for a while, but after _Call Me,_ after—you know, after—everything took off," Timmy waves a hand vaguely, "she was suddenly on all my socials again, messaging me and stuff. And I just sort of...ignored it, you know? Hoped we'd never run into each other." He rolls his eyes. "Jesus, I can't believe how stupid I am."

 _I don't know what you really could have done,_ thinks Armie. _She sounds scary enough to kick off if you reject her. Someone who won't take five years of silent avoidance as an answer in itself is kind of something._ He briefly squeezes Timmy's arm. "Hey. It's not your fault. Shitty situation."

Timmy looks at him gratefully. "She like, messaged all my friends at college asking about me," he whispers. "Like, where my classes were and stuff. It was—it was fucking weird."

_Oh, Tim. Always so surprised that people go mad for you._

Armie grimaces. "You think it would work, asking her not to say anything about us?" he asks, doubtfully. _'Us'. As if this is real, Hammer. Get a grip._

Timmy shrugs. "If—if I agree to get that coffee with her, maybe." He tries to say it neutrally, but Armie can see the worried expression in his eyes.

"Hey, whoa, no. Jesus. The last thing she needs is encouragement. _Or_ your phone number." His stomach tightens at the thought. He's hardly even jealous anymore; this is more creepy-stalkerish than anything.

"I'm so, so sorry for dragging you into this." Timmy's knee is jiggling again, a sure sign he's anxious. "I just—I needed her to know this wasn't some kind of—opportunity, you know? And with the free seat…" he looks at it as though he expects her to drop into it at any second, then stares down at his hands. "I wasn't thinking properly, and I'm so sorry. I know—I know you hate what people say about us and I know this'll just feed the rumor mill further."

Armie blinks. _What?_ "Huh?" he asks, then, "what are you talking about?"

Timmy's eyes are soft green when he looks up. "I know you don't like it when people say we're...you know. More than friends," he murmurs. "It was a dumb thing to think of. I'm sorry."

_I mean, it made things fucking hard when I was still with Elizabeth. So many fights; so many fucking fights. But mostly I hate it because I wish it was true._

"I just meant—" stammers Armie. "Tim. I just meant—don't you remember how worried Brian was during the tour? He knew any hint of you liking men could fuck up your Oscar chances. So. I'm not…" he trails off. "You should—that should be what you worry about," he finishes, lamely.

Timmy grimaces and looks away. He looks like he's trying to hold something back.

 _Fuck._ Armie just wants to hug him. _I can't believe he thought I was angry with him. This is going to be torture—a taste of what I can't fucking have—but if it keeps that creepy girl away..._

He leans in close to Timmy's ear, trying to ignore the smell of his shampoo, the soft brush of one of his curls against his lips. "Look, it's okay. It's—fine. She's scary. We can just pretend during the flight, and afterwards…" he shrugs. "If she's that much of a stalker, maybe she won't want to ruin her future chances with you by yelling about it on Twitter."

Timmy turns to look at him, hope in his eyes. "But don't you—are you sure?"

Armie shrugs. "I'm fine with it, Tim. It's not like it requires much from us, does it? Bit of hand-holding, some loving looks. I look at you lovingly all the time anyway," he teases, bumping Timmy's shoulder with his own. Inside, his heart squeezes with the painful truth of it.

Timmy ducks his head, blushing slightly. "Shut up, man," he mumbles. "Seriously. Thank you. And I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising, boyfriend."

Timmy turns towards him then, pressing his face into Armie's shoulder, as if to hide his embarrassment. "What if...what if it does get out?" he asks.

"Jesus, Tim, I don't know. It's kind of—it's kind of up to you, right? I mean, let's be real, you're the Oscar contender here. Maybe you'll just have to get a girlfriend fast, and deny all knowledge." Armie gives a wry half-smile at the thought.

Timmy groans. "No, Armie, I meant—won't you be…" he trails off.

Armie's heart races. He swallows. He decides to take the flippant route out. "Hey, the media and half the internet thinks I'm in love with you anyway, so."

Timmy punches him lightly on the arm. "God, you're annoying. There's no point trying to have a serious conversation with you." His voice is so full of fondness that Armie has to close his eyes for a second just to cope. "Also, don't fucking say that shit about the Oscars," Timmy adds, fiercely. "I've told you before I don't want to hear it."

Armie smiles and reaches over with his left hand to ruffle Timmy's curls. "Sorry, sir."

"Well, you wouldn't take it if I sat there saying that shit about myself."

"True." _But then I'm not an acting prodigy, you ridiculous beautiful man._

Timmy nestles his head further onto Armie's shoulder. "So—we're doing this, then?" he mumbles.

"Sure. Boyfriend." Armie says it teasingly, trying to ignore the stab of mingled pain and pleasure near his heart.

"Well, I did miss Armie-hugs," says Timmy. "So be warned, I'll be capitalizing."

Armie chuckles. "No problem. Carry on."

_Oh, Christ._

_How the fuck am I going to go back, after this? Back to just—normal affection? Normal interaction?_

He takes a breath. _Come on Hammer. You did it once already, after Crema. It was painful as fuck, but you did it. You can do it again._

"You could try and get some sleep," he tells Timmy. "Then if we hit turbulence you won't even know. With the extra seat you can stretch out a bit." _If he's asleep for a while the time will go faster. I can just cuddle him while he sleeps. I can cope with that._

Timmy nods. "Yeah. I'm gonna drink my juice and listen a bit more, but it'd be good if I can after."

Armie looks at his own drink; he'd gone for a whisky in the end. Right now, it looks very appealing. He picks it up and takes a gulp, the amber liquid trailing like fire to his stomach.

"Guess you need that, after everything I've got you into," says Timmy wryly.

Armie huffs a laugh. "Hey. C'mon." He picks up his book. "It's all good. Not like we've never hugged or held hands before." He regrets saying it immediately, because he wonders if Timmy's thinking about holding hands on the plane, and then not doing so when Elizabeth was there. Or something else entirely—all the hugs on set, the damn days spent naked in bed together—

"Fine. Well like I say, I'm gonna capitalize." Timmy shifts, sitting up and pushing the armrest up so it's no longer between them. He reaches down to unlace his boots, and pushes them off.

 _I really shouldn't find the fact he's wearing baby pink socks so fucking attractive. What is wrong with me?_ Armie looks quickly away, taking another sip of whisky.

Timmy rearranges himself, pulling his feet up on the seat and leaning against Armie, then making a noise of dissatisfaction and pulling Armie's arm around himself instead. His head ends up nestled against Armie's neck, leaning his weight against his chest as he pulls the headphones back on and starts drinking his orange juice.

Armie tries to find an innocuous place to rest his hand, plumping eventually for Timmy's waist. His heart is pounding. His senses are full of Timmy: the scent of his shampoo, the silky tickle of his curls, the warm weight of his body. He finishes his whisky in one final gulp.

"I've just got to the bit with the party and the costume," says Timmy, after a while. "Oh my god, you're going to be so good when she comes down the stairs. Your face is going to be amazing."

Armie huffs a soft laugh. "My super-fan."

"You know it."

_What can you even do with this guy? How can someone be so genuine, so kind and thoughtful, without even trying? How could I not love him?_

He picks up his book, and after a few tries, even manages to get himself to read beyond the same sentence he's been looking at repeatedly.

Timmy finishes his orange juice, and the air stewardess takes away their glasses. After a few minutes Timmy shifts a little, then again a few moments later.

"Uncomfortable?" asks Armie, quietly.

"No, just…" Timmy shrugs slightly. "Kind of sleepy? Maybe need to move a bit."

"Move, then."

"Can I still lean on you though?"

Armie's heart squeezes. "'Course you can, Tim. You don't need to ask, remember? During the flight we're—anything's—it's fine, okay?"

Timmy looks up at him, then, his eyes dusky green. "Thank you," he mumbles.

Armie shakes his head and lifts his arm a little. "Come on then."

Timmy sits up. He tries a couple positions, but ends up turning towards Armie and burying his face in his neck, pulling his left knee up onto the seat. After a moment's hesitation he hooks his right leg over Armie's knee. Armie settles his arm around him.

"'S'this okay?" asks Timmy. He does sound sleepy.

"Of course." Armie rubs Timmy's back slightly. He's so slim that Armie's hand tucks easily across his back and around his waist. "Sleep."

Timmy nods. After a minute, his right hand comes to rest on Armie's chest. He burrows his face more firmly into Armie's neck. "You're the best," he mumbles.

Armie takes a breath. _Okay. Okay. I can do this. So I've got my arms—and practically my lap—full of the man I'm horribly, unrequitedly in love with, but...hey. Fuck it. I can do this. He'll sleep for a while and then there'll only be a few hours left to go. It's not much different from a normal hug anyway._

He discovers, in the course of the next hour, that Timmy _clings_ when he's sleeping.

The hand he'd placed on Armie's chest moves to his waist instead, fingers clutching at Armie's sweater. His breath comes in warm, sleepy little puffs of air against Armie's neck. He shifts a little in his seat, and the leg he'd hooked over Armie's knee moves up a little, so it's more over his thigh. He cuddles in close.

 _Fuck. Fucking hell._ Armie takes a breath, staring blankly at the page in front of him. He can't help it; he imagines nights with him, Timmy asleep on his chest or safely curled as Armie's little spoon.

It makes sense that Tim's a cuddler, it really does. Armie's just never had it so vividly demonstrated to him before.

_Fuck._

Armie wonders if Timmy's cuddly during sex, too. _Does he want to be held, treasured, told how good he is? Or would it all turn around, then? Would he want to be dominated, bossed around? Would he be pushier, want to be in charge?_

_Or all of them, by turns?_

Armie closes his eyes, trying to get control of his thoughts. _I can't do this, not with Timmy's leg over my fucking thigh. I can't._ He knows from experience how frighteningly easy it is for Timmy to turn him on. And these days, with so little physical contact between them, it's more difficult to get used to it, to reach his old level of familiarity with Timmy's sweet, tactile nature.

Armie's always afraid of making it obvious how much Timmy affects him, and this situation is no exception. Because the truth is, Timmy's kind and tactile with everyone. He hugs fans. His dad kisses him on the temple, and his mom holds his hand on red carpets. He and his friends—male and female—are touchier with one another than Armie can imagine being with most people other than his kids or a significant other. Armie is very careful not to let himself believe that Timmy's readiness to touch him makes him _special._

There is a bit of mild turbulence while Timmy sleeps, and Armie gently strokes his back through it, soothing him even though he's not awake. Luckily, the plane settles back to smooth before he wakes.

When Timmy stirs, he at first seems to be trying to cling on to sleep; he tightens his fingers in Armie's sweater, and nuzzles at his neck. Then he freezes for a second, and pulls back slightly. When his eyes open, they're golden-green.

Armie pats him softly on the waist and gives him a smile. "Good sleep?"

Timmy blinks, then relaxes. He nods. "I—yeah. I guess so." He sounds a bit surprised.

"Even on a plane," teases Armie. "Sure there wasn't something in that orange juice?"

Timmy smiles and yawns, crinkling his nose. He cuddles back onto Armie's chest. "Think it's _you,"_ he mumbles. "Are you a wizard?"

"Wait. Am I so boring I put you to sleep?"

"You're such an ass." Timmy nuzzles Armie's neck. "Did she see us?" he whispers.

"I only saw her walk past us once, but she definitely saw. She was looking for you, for sure."

Timmy sighs. "God. So embarrassing," he mumbles.

"Tim. It's not embarrassing for _you._ She's the one behaving like a crazy stalker."

"Not _stalker…"_ protests Timmy weakly.

"Well. Given half a chance."

Timmy grimaces. "Sorry for this."

"Stop apologizing."

"But you've been dragged into…" he gestures vaguely with one hand. "And now I'm all—in your face."

"Oh, shush." Armie drops a kiss into Timmy's curls, and then freezes. "Uh—sorry."

Timmy shakes his head, clearing his throat slightly. "I don't mind. All good for the story, right?"

_Yes. The story. Because this is all pretend. Jesus, Hammer. Get a fucking grip._

Armie sighs with relief. "So—if she asks—how long have we been together? How did we get together?" he whispers.

"Oh. Uh—so I said a couple months, did I?" Timmy asks, rubbing his eyes.

Armie watches his delicate, strong fingers. "Yup. Nothing definite."

"Well, I guess—I guess everyone knows we did _Call Me_ together, but—there was nothing between us then, and then a few months ago we were in NYC at the same time and we'd been friends for years but realised it was more?" Timmy whispers. "I guess we don't need a lot more detail than that?"

Armie nods. His heart is pounding. _There was nothing between us then. I mean, of course there wasn't, but—but I guess it felt like everything to me._

"Why did we realise?" he asks. _Why the fuck did you ask that, Hammer? Why are you doing this to yourself?_

Timmy shifts and looks up at him, giving him that unrestrained, slightly-crooked grin. "It all became obvious when you kissed me, Hammer."

Armie has no idea if he's blushing or not. "Oh?" he asks. "And you had _no_ idea before that?"

Timmy blinks and drops his gaze, nuzzling his head back under Armie's chin. "Well. Obviously I was...receptive."

"Receptive?" Armie hums, with a laugh. "So I made all the moves?"

"Well. You're older than me, Armie. You know what you're doing, like, generally. In life."

Armie huffs wryly. "I think you know _that's_ not true, Tim."

Timmy pokes him gently in the ribs. "Shut up. You're so mean to yourself. You've got kids, and you're such a good dad. You own property. You act amazingly, in cool projects. You're financially solvent, without relying on your parents. Sorry Hammer, but you're an actual full-on adult."

"So are you." Armie settles his arm more comfortably on Timmy's back. "You do all those things except the kids."

Timmy practically snorts. "Jesus. You think I _own property_ in NYC?"

Armie laughs quietly. "Okay. Just because you don't doesn't mean you couldn't. Pretty sure you could afford it by now."

Timmy shifts uncomfortably. "Well. I don't know. Probably not."

"Anyway. You _know_ all those traditional markers mean absolutely shit. Pretty sure I'm just as confused as the next guy about life, the universe and everything."

"Well. You're a very brave person, anyway. So. You kissed me."

Armie squeezes him. "Not sure you know me at all, Tim."

_Imagine if it was that simple. Love someone. Kiss them. They love you back._

Silently, Timmy winds his fingers into Armie's sweater.

"You sleepy again?" asks Armie. Part of him hopes Timmy is so that some more time will pass. Part of him hopes he is so that he'll cling to him again.

"Kind of?" Timmy sighs. "Don't know if I'll sleep again though. How's your book going?"

"Slowly. Can't concentrate—you know what it's like on the plane." _You know what it's like when your best friend and love of your life is just casually cuddled up practically in your lap, pretending to be your boyfriend, when that's the thing you actually want most in the world._

Timmy nods. "Should we—d'you want to watch a movie together, maybe?"

Armie shrugs. "Sounds good. What've we got?"

Timmy picks a French movie called _Potiche._ They sync up their watching times, and Timmy curls into Armie's side again, head on his shoulder.

"Can you see your screen properly from there?" asks Armie.

Timmy nods. Then, after a second, he pulls away slightly. "Am I being annoying?" he asks, rattling off the question quickly. "Sorry, I don't have to be, like, _right_ here—"

Armie shakes his head—possibly too quickly—and squeezes Timmy's narrow shoulders. "No, no. I was just checking you could see."

Timmy relaxes back against him and nods. "Yup. But I've seen this movie a stupid number of times."

Armie smiles. "Maybe you will sleep then."

"Maybe." Timmy shifts, pulling his socked feet up onto the empty seat next to him. The change of position makes him lean more heavily against Armie's chest and side.

"I like your pink socks, Chalamet," murmurs Armie, after a while. He hadn't meant to say anything, but just watching the movie with Timmy isn't enough now, it seems. He needs more—his attention, his thoughts, his voice. _I never get enough of him, and I need to fucking stop._

Timmy huffs a little chuckle. "Really? Or is the pink stressing you out?"

Armie looks down at him. "Stressing me out?"

"Oh, you know. Baby pink on my boy-feet," he teases, deadpan.

Armie pokes him lightly in the stomach. "Idiot. I _have_ pink clothes."

"Like, one t-shirt. _And_ I bet you threw it away in the move."

"You're ridiculous, Chalamet. I spent days naked in bed with you. I'm currently pretending to be your boyfriend. You really think my masculinity's threatened by wearing a bit of pink?"

Timmy looks up at him with the open, honest expression that has the power to flay away any shred of reserve that Armie has left. "Well there has to be _some_ reason you don't wear it more. You look so good in it." He pushes at Armie's side with his shoulder and rattles on, quietly. "And anyway. That was a _job,_ and this is—circumstances. You being kind."

_That was a job._

_I mean—of course it was just a job. Of course it was._

He looks out of the window, letting the French dialogue from the film wash over him.

"Don't need the subtitles, Hammer? Been taking French lessons?" Timmy teases. But he's looking up at Armie with piercing green eyes, a small frown line between his brows.

"As if I'd need French lessons, when I've got you to tell me everything I'm pronouncing wrong."

"Oh my god. That was like _one_ time."

 _"One time_ my ass! Cheeky little shit."

Timmy giggles. "Well, you got me beat in Spanish. No need to be cranky."

Armie rolls his eyes at him fondly. _The way he giggles makes my chest hurt. Fucking—wonderful. Really great. Yep. I'm fucked._

"We can go shopping in London, Chalamet. You can stock my new wardrobe with pink, if you really want."

_Jesus Christ, you need to stop talking as if you're actually his boyfriend._

Timmy's face lights with joy. "Seriously? Really actually? That would be fucking awesome."

Armie's heart swells. He tries to keep his expression neutral, his tone light and amused. "Really actually. I know you find most of my clothes painful to witness."

This time Timmy reaches up to tap him lightly on the cheek. "Stop it. I do not." His eyes crinkle at the edges. "Oh my god, that's so cool. I can't believe you'll let me shop with you."

"If only you weren't so good at acting. You could've been a designer. Or a stylist."

Timmy giggles again, happily. "You're such an ego boost, Hammer."

"So are you. Though with a bit more swearing and crankiness."

"Well you shouldn't say such mean shit about yourself all the time then."

"See?"

Timmy tucks his knees up in glee, huddling closer to Armie. "You're missing the movie 'cause you're so argumentative."

_"Me?"_

"See?"

Armie pokes him in the ribs, and Timmy giggles and squirms. _Always ticklish._

"Don't don't don't," whispers Timmy. "I know you. You'll tickle me until I scream and then everyone will stare at us."

Armie squeezes him. "Fine. But be warned, I might attack you later, at the hotel. This is only postponed."

"That's okay old man. You'll probably forget."

"Postponed, and _guaranteed."_

Timmy shifts to curl himself into Armie's side again, slinging both legs across his lap. He puts his right arm around Armie's waist and cuddles into him. "Ass."

Armie just tugs gently at one of his curls. They watch the movie for a few minutes.

"You're not really offended I never asked you about my wardrobe clear-out?" asks Armie, stroking Timmy's back.

Timmy looks up. "No, no—not offended." He hesitates. "I...I have missed you though, man. It's been—kind of shit not talking so much."

Armie's heart thumps. "I know. I missed you too." _I didn't exactly know what to say, after the divorce. 'Hey, so I'm free and still horribly in love with you! I'm a single parent ten years older than you who has no experience sleeping with men! Dinner?'_

_Yeah, maybe not._

"I'm sorry," he offers, quietly.

Timmy nuzzles his forehead against Armie's collarbone; pleats the fabric of Armie's sweater with his fingers. "You weren't—you weren't mad at me?" he asks, in a small voice.

Armie blinks. _“Mad_ at you? Tim, what—why would you—what _for?”_

Timmy still fiddles with Armie’s sweater. “I don’t know, I just—sometimes I kind of felt like—I shouldn’t’ve come to stay with you guys when I was...and I feel like it was a bit—awkward? On the tour, sometimes. And I just—I never meant to make things difficult, or get in the way of you having time with your family—” he sighs. “I just feel like maybe I did make things more—more difficult.”

Armie’s stomach flips, but he shakes his head vehemently. “No. Jesus. You shouldn’t’ve been made to feel it was awkward. It _wasn’t._ I mean fuck, outside of the interviews and red carpet stuff, half the time we didn’t even have dinner together.” _The half of the time that Elizabeth was there._

“I just—I know it must’ve been difficult, with everyone talking shit about us all the time. Saying we—we must be fucking and all that. And I’m sorry. I hope it wasn’t—I hope it didn’t…” Timmy makes an incoherent noise of frustration against Armie’s chest. “Sorry. Fuck. This is—sorry. Stupid.”

Armie’s heart beats hard, but he strives for a calm, confident tone. “Yeah, it _is_ stupid, Tim, but I understand what you mean. You have to hear me, though, when I say we’d never have broken up if there wasn’t a bunch of stuff under the surface. _So_ many actors get shit talked about them with their co-stars. It’s not like we’re the first. But things—things weren’t all fine, already.”

Slowly, Timmy nods. “Okay.” He takes a breath. “Are you—are you okay? After the—after everything? I feel like…if it was me, I wouldn’t be. And I didn’t really know how to ask, over FaceTime.”

Armie hugs him just a little bit closer for a moment. “I am. I really am, Tim. I’m fucking sad, of course, and it’s been a big adjustment, with the move, and working round the kids’ new schedules—” he shrugs. “But honestly, I’m relieved. And I’m fine.”

Timmy absorbs that silently for a minute, then shifts so that he can watch the movie again.

"Want to know a secret?" asks Timmy, after a while. His voice is sleepy again.

"Sure."

"Even though it's a fucking—ridiculous situation, I'm kind of glad this happened. I get to make up for all the hugs I've been missing." Timmy smiles as he says it.

Armie huffs a laugh. _He's so open. So fucking sweet. I'm so fucked._ "You know you can hug me literally any time, Tim."

"Yeah, but not like _this."_ Timmy slides his hand a little further around Armie's waist, and nuzzles his neck. "It has to be like, bro-hugs the rest of the time. Now I just get actual, honest-to-god _cuddles."_ Armie hears the smile in his voice.

His heart hurts with it, with the articulation of his own need. _You can do this whenever you want to, Tim. It'll keep killing me, every single damn time, but I'll still take it. I'll take anything you'll give me. I'll give you anything you want._

He forces a chuckle. "It's okay. You can just tell me at the time what kind of hug you need."

Timmy pulls back; touches him gently, affectionately on the cheek. "You're so easygoing, Armie. You're always kind to me."

_I'm not. I pushed you away because I thought I had to. I pushed away someone who could've been...so much to me. So very much._

Armie swallows; fights to keep his expression calmly amused. "You're my best friend."

Timmy's gaze drops. He bites his lip for a second, then he half-smiles without looking up. "Yeah. Yes. I am."

"Well this is cozy," says a voice from the aisle.

 _Tania._ Armie feels the way Timmy's body stiffens in his embrace.

"Hey," says Timmy, reluctantly. "Having a good flight?"

"Just stretching my legs," she returns, leaning over, resting her elbow on the back of the seat that had originally been Timmy's. "How about you—guys?" she asks, remembering to include Armie at the last second with a quick flick of a glance.

“Watching a movie.” Armie pointedly reaches out to pause it on both screens, making Timmy lean forward to free up his right arm. He tries not to look at her hostilely, but he knows his expression is making it clear she’s not welcome.

She gives him a blank look, then returns her attention to Timmy. “So are you going to be in London a while? Or—”

Timmy shifts uncomfortably; presses his cheek to Armie's. “Just a couple nights, isn’t it baby? I kinda lose track.”

Armie tries to hide the evidence of several bombs going off behind his eyes.

_Baby._

_If I turned my head now, just a little, we’d be kissing. Finally, finally kissing again, after so fucking long._

“Two nights, yep.” Armie brings his hand up to Timmy’s nape and grasps it possessively, thumb tracing a soft line up and down the side of his neck.

“Oh that’s such a shame,” sighs Tania. “I’ll be back in London next week. We could’ve hung out.”

 _No. No you fucking couldn’t have. Jesus Christ, she needs to stop._ He feels Timmy shiver slightly in his arms. _She’s freaking Tim out._

“Cold, sweetie?” he murmurs, pulling Timmy closer. _My Sweet Tea._

Timmy shakes his head and softly kisses Armie’s cheek.

“You guys met on a movie set, right?” asks Tania, still not leaving. Her tone of voice says, _well this isn’t going to last._

That seems to get to Timmy; Armie can feel the tension thrumming through his body. “Yes, we did,” he returns. “And we’ve been friends ever since. For four years.” It’s the snappiest Armie’s ever heard him get with anyone.

Armie stares her right in the eyes. “I think we’re gonna carry on with our movie, now.” He doesn’t leave any room for negotiation or compromise.

For a moment she gives him a death-stare, but then she drops his gaze. “Cool. Well, I’ve stretched my legs, so I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Must you?” grumbles Armie under his breath, as she walks away.

Timmy huffs a silent snort of laughter against his cheek. “Shh, Armie.” He kisses the same spot he’d kissed before. “She’ll hear you.”

“I’m already top of her kill list, Tim, don’t think anything I do will make much difference.”

“Oh my god, don’t.”

"She's definitely gonna murder me. If I don't come back from the toilet, you'll know it's because she's stabbed me with a plastic fork."

Timmy giggles. "Shhh. Also, talking of which, I'm going to the bathroom." He stretches and moves away, and Armie misses him immediately.

Armie stands up while Timmy's gone, stretching his legs by pacing up and down the aisle a little. When Timmy gets back, he goes off to the bathroom.

On his return, Timmy's in Armie's seat, back against the window, feet up, his knees a wall. He looks extremely uncomfortable. Tania's sitting in the end seat, smiling, leaning towards him and talking about her father who lives in Edinburgh.

_Oh my god. Seriously. Just leave._

"Excuse me," says Armie.

She looks up; her mouth twists slightly, but she stands up in the aisle to let him pass. Armie sits down in the middle seat and hooks a hand under Timmy's legs, guiding them onto his lap. They're long enough that his pink-socked feet wind up sticking out across the end seat too, effectively blocking it from use.

Armie laces his fingers together with Timmy's, raising his hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. "You want another drink?"

Timmy nods, smiling softly at him. "Can I have tea?"

"Don't think they'll have Earl Grey, sweetie." Armie makes the endearment as saccharine as he can, reveling in the spark of private amusement in Timmy's eyes—as it always used to be when Armie said something in interviews just to make Timmy struggle not to laugh.

"Still."

"Still," Armie echoes, and looks around. "Tania, can you see the air stewardess from there?" _Since you seem to be planning to just stand next to our seats for the entire flight._ He looks back to Timmy. "Let's finally finish that movie, huh, once we have our drinks?"

She purses her lips. "I think they're serving food at my seat," she says, looking away. "Later."

"Later," say both Armie and Timmy, trying not to laugh as she walks away.

"I feel like an asshole," murmurs Timmy.

Armie shakes his head firmly. "Give her an inch, she'll take a mile, right? I mean, I just went to the bathroom and she was back here immediately."

Timmy grimaces. "I know. It was like she'd been waiting. Watching for the right moment."

"Jesus." Armie looks down and realises that their fingers are still laced together. _Should I let go? I mean—I probably should, so I don't look creepy, but fuck, if we could just stay like this forever—_

"Seems like they are serving food," murmurs Timmy. "Guess I should actually sit like a normal person."

Armie squeezes his hand, and unwinds their fingers. "Do you ever?" he teases.

Timmy flicks him, backhanded, on the arm as he lowers his feet to the floor. "Asshole. I fell off my chair _one_ time."

Armie snorts. "You know, I wasn't even thinking of that when I said it, but _now_ I am."

Timmy pouts and leans his head against Armie's shoulder. "I'm an idiot."

Armie presses a kiss to his curls. "Yes. But—" _perfect. You're perfect. And I need to stop kissing you. What the fuck is wrong with me?_ "A very nice one."

"Hmf." Timmy mumbles a mock-grumpy response. "Great. So I'm your amiable idiot friend."

Armie laughs quietly and knocks his knee against Timmy's. "Shut up, Chalamet. You know half the time on the promo tour I'd just let you talk because you're about forty times more articulate than I am."

"I thought it was because I don't know when to shut up?"

"Well, that too, of course."

The stewardess appears with their food, and Armie's heart aches with the way that Timmy's suddenly not touching him.

_It's already difficult. This was such an awful fucking idea. Not being able to do this with him again afterwards is going to be hell._

They eat watching the movie, Timmy automatically passing Armie his bread roll.

"You ought to eat it. I swear you're still skinnier after that movie." _That movie. The movie that shall not be named. If I ever meet the director I'm gonna punch him._

"I'm not. It's just the fight training from _Dune._ And anyway—"

"—You just don't like these particular bread rolls. I know, I know." Armie watches Timmy's quick grin in profile, his heart squeezing.

"We're going to get bagels in London, by the way. There's a cool place in Brick Lane."

Armie just smiles, not needing to reply. _I'll go anywhere with you, of course._

When their trays are taken away, Armie orders a cup of tea for Timmy and another whisky for himself. _Bad idea?_ he wonders. _Or good way to take the edge off?_

Timmy curls up again immediately, turning to lay his legs across Armie's lap and pulling Armie's arm around himself. He slowly sips his tea, blowing across the surface of it in a way that makes Armie swallow and have to look away.

_Why? Why is everything he does so cute I could die from it?_

"Actually am really sleepy again now," mumbles Timmy, putting his empty mug on Armie's table. He rests his head on Armie's shoulder, hand on his chest. Armie pulls him closer and rests his own head against Timmy's.

By the time the film ends Timmy's asleep again. Armie puts on _The Office,_ some random episodes from season three. He knows Timmy will be fine with it if he wakes up, and he can feel himself getting sleepy too.

_Rare, on the plane. Normally the lack of legroom bothers me more._

_I'd have thought having my lap full of the love of my life would make me even less likely to sleep, but apparently not._

He dreams, incoherently; he can't see him properly, but he knows without doubt that it's Timmy in his dream, and they're easy together, sweet and loving. Things tip seamlessly from innocent to—not so innocent, and Armie feels nothing but _calm, happiness, want—_

Waking, he passes quickly from peace and adoration to fear that he's done something, betrayed himself in some way— _my friend, my best friend—_

He's hard, uncomfortable in his jeans, and Timmy's legs are still across his lap. Armie takes a soft, suppressed breath, hoping against hope that Timmy's still asleep. His heart is pounding. _This is getting unmanageable._

_He could wake up. He'd know, and he'd be creeped out._

_I need a walk. I have to get away from this, just for a couple minutes._

Armie slips his hand under Timmy's legs, gently lifting them. Timmy stirs, and Armie murmurs, "just going to the bathroom, Tim. Back in a minute."

Thankfully, Timmy settles again, still sleepy. Armie discreetly adjusts himself before he steps out into the aisle, stretching and shaking out his legs as he walks to the bathroom.

He splashes his face with cold water and leans against the wall, waiting for his erection to subside. Then he takes a piss and washes his hands, runs them through his hair. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes puffy with sleep. He wishes he could brush his teeth.

_You've got to get a fucking grip, Hammer. Drink some water. Chew some gum. And stop fantasising about your best friend._

He's afraid he'll find Tania at their seats when he returns, but instead it's just Timmy, arms folded over his belly, dozing fitfully. He blinks sleepily at Armie, and welcomes him back with a muzzy "hey."

"Hey." Armie can't help but imagine being greeted like that from his bed, messy curls on the pillow and warm sleep-flushed skin—

_Jesus Christ. Get a fucking hold of your brain._

Armie takes his seat and digs in his backpack for his bottle of water and a pack of gum. Both wake him up a little, which can only be for the best. _No more sleep until we get to the hotel._

"Too hot," mumbles Timmy, and then he's sleepily fighting his hoodie off over his head.

Armie gulps a breath as Timmy's slim back and stomach are revealed. Automatically he reaches out to help, holding down the edges of Tim's peach-coloured t-shirt. His fingertips just barely brush warm soft skin and he has to fight the urge to gasp, to pull his hands back. He looks quickly away, swallowing.

Timmy wads up his hoodie against Armie's shoulder as a pillow, mumbles his thanks, and slips back into sleep, hugging Armie's left arm. After a minute, his hand creeps into Armie's.

Armie drinks more water and settles down to try and read. He manages to keep his mind on the book for a while, and it's about an hour later that Timmy stirs.

"W'time is it?" he mumbles.

"We've got another hour or so. Keep napping if you can."

Timmy shakes his head; his eyes are still closed. "Bathroom," he murmurs.

Armie squeezes his hand. "You want me to order you anything?"

"'M'good. Thanks." Timmy yawns and stretches. "D'you have gum?"

Armie hands it over and tries to concentrate firmly on his book as Timmy climbs over him.

When Timmy returns, he looks much more awake and put together. He's clearly tidied his curls. He clambers back over Armie and picks up his hoodie. "Too cold again now," he says, pulling it on. "I hate planes."

Armie smiles. "I know, Chalamet."

Timmy gives him a grin. He tucks his feet up on the seat and hugs his knees. "You sick of hearing me moan about it yet, Hammer?"

"Never." Armie employs a softly sardonic tone, and Timmy huffs a laugh.

"Cool. So you were sick of it years ago."

Armie gives him a look. "Idiot." He takes another drink from his water bottle. "You've been okay on this flight, right? You're doing good."

Timmy glances quickly at him, then grimaces. "Yeah, well. Let's see how landing goes." He hugs his knees a little tighter and fidgets; lowers his voice. "Do you think I need to go talk to Tania? Ask her not to—you know."

Armie sighs. "Honestly, Tim, it's up to you. She clearly thinks it won't—wouldn't—last. If I'm reading her right, she still thinks she has a chance with you. I doubt she'd want to be the source, but of course there's anonymous stuff she could do."

Timmy nods. "Do you—do you want me to try?" he asks, in a small voice. He stares at his pink-socked toes.

Armie turns to look at him, half-frowning, trying to figure out what Timmy's really asking. He thinks there's something else behind the question, but he can't figure out what. "If you're only taking me into account, Chalamet, I don't care. But you've got to think about your career."

Timmy's eyes are stunning just now; bright hazel-green and full of a thousand things that Armie can't quite decipher. "Are you sure?" he asks, biting his lip.

"Of course." Armie can't take the intensity of that stare anymore. He's about to look away when Timmy's gaze flickers away for a second—

 _"Fuck._ Incoming. Kiss me," mutters Timmy, frowning.

"Wha—" Armie whispers, but Timmy's eyes are pleading, and maybe something in Armie acts independently from his brain because then his lips are on Timmy's, gently, no pressure at all, really—

Timmy makes a soft little noise in his throat, and it's too much for Armie's self-control. He lets go of his book and puts his hand on Timmy's face, fingertips tentative on that laser-cut jawline.

There's a moment where neither of them really moves; Armie wonders whether Timmy's about to pull back, apologise, say they've gone too far. And then Timmy's kissing back, a soft press of lips and another small, stifled noise.

Everything is too much and not enough at once. Armie has the terrible impression that he can't possibly remember this moment well enough, that he _needs_ to remember it, store it away for all the years after this that he _won't_ be able to kiss Timmy. It takes him a while to realise that Timmy's hand is on his neck, and then he hopes desperately that those delicate fingers can't feel the racing of his pulse, its frantic telltale flutter.

 _This was always perfect, with you._ The thought makes him want to cry.

Timmy shifts, turning a little, his feet still up on the seat but his knees tipping over onto Armie's. It's a softening of the space between them, a breach of their boundaries—whatever boundaries they have left—and Armie wants to pull him closer, into his lap, wrap him up in his arms.

The kiss deepens. _He must want to make sure she doesn't interrupt us,_ thinks part of Armie's brain, but most of it is focused on the soft touch of the tip of Timmy's tongue to his bottom lip, on the shock of need that rushes through him.

He parts his lips, not pressing forward, not pushing for more, but giving an option, just an _option—_

Timmy takes it, gasping softly as he runs his tongue along the inside of Armie's top lip. His fingers are restless on Armie's neck, as though he wants to pull him closer.

Armie doesn't know how long it is until they part, a loss that makes his chest pang. He takes a breath, eyes closed.

When he opens them, Timmy's eyes are wide and hazel and scared. "She's gone," he says, awkwardly.

Armie's heart _hurts._ He drops Timmy's gaze, and nods. He can't trust his own voice right now.

_He was just getting rid of her. Of course he was just getting rid of her. You knew that, you fucking idiot. Why are you upset?_

"Hope it looked—uh—realistic," mutters Armie, flipping aimlessly through his book, trying to find his page.

Next to him, Timmy doesn't move for a second; then he shifts his knees out of Armie's space. "Yeah. We sold it," he says, and he sounds more like himself this time.

Armie reads. He's not quite sure if he's rereading a section he already finished. It doesn't really matter, anyway, because the meaning of the words doesn't penetrate to his brain at all.

Every few minutes, he turns a page.

Timmy listens to his music, headphones on.

In time, the crew begin to prepare for the plane's descent, collecting rubbish, checking seatbelts and hand luggage. Armie feels Timmy tense next to him, his knee fidgeting once again. Silently, Armie reaches out and touches Timmy's hand, offering his own to be held if needed. Timmy takes it gratefully, lacing their fingers together.

Armie knows he needs to look up, make a joke of some kind. Break the tension in the air.

_Don't flatter yourself, Hammer. It's not tension because of the kiss. It's tension because Timmy's terrified of flying._

_Come on. Do better._

"What's our plan when we leave?" he asks, in a whisper. "I'll grab the cases from the locker as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off. Hopefully she'll have to wait for luggage at baggage reclaim and we can get away easily, but I guess we might need to speed-walk to passport control?"

Timmy nods, gnawing on his bottom lip. "I'm sorry about all this, Hammer. I'm really sorry."

Armie can't help squeezing his hand. "Don't, Tim. It's not your fault. Just—just chill while we land, okay?"

Timmy grimaces a smile; shrugs. "I'll try."

He grips Armie's hand tightly throughout the landing, eyes closed. His breathing's not quite even, and Armie wants to hold him, pull him in close. He resists the urge, staring out over the lights of London as they circle and then start to come in. _We'll walk fast and get a cab right away. Hopefully she won't catch us._

As soon as they're down, Timmy takes a long, steadying breath.

Gently, his heart aching, Armie separates their hands; he packs away his book, bottle of water and earphones in his backpack, and passes Timmy all his stuff. Gets ready to grab the suitcases and power-walk. _We should be getting off the plane before her, since we're business class._

As soon as the seatbelt signs go off, Armie's up in the aisle, grabbing their luggage. He makes space for Timmy to climb out of the row in front of him, and they wait in uncomfortable proximity. Armie wants to put his hand on the nape of Timmy's neck; drop a soft kiss into his curls. _We're still on the plane. We're still pretending._

_Don't kiss him._

Gently, he touches the back of Timmy's neck; caresses it with his thumb. _I'd worship this place, Tim. If I could._

"You ready?" he asks, quietly, in Timmy's ear.

Timmy shivers slightly, and Armie remembers he's still touching him. He moves his hand away.

Timmy nods. "Yep. Looks like we're going."

They speed-walk to passport control, catching one another's eye and grinning occasionally; it's a ludicrous situation, and whatever tension there may have been seems to have dissipated in the need for action.

They've overtaken pretty much everyone from their flight by the time they reach passport control. They have to join the longer line for All Passports, but Timmy keeps his hood up and his head lowered as they wait, not looking around or making eye contact with anyone.

They speed past baggage reclaim without stopping, and by the time they throw themselves into a cab, they're laughing breathlessly.

"Oh my god," giggles Timmy, as Armie tells the driver the name of their hotel. "That was fucking ridiculous." He lays his head back against the headrest and gives Armie a blinding grin. "Thank you."

Armie laughs, turning to look out of the window, watching the grey blur of London's ugly outskirts. _How can you be so beautiful?_ He tries to crush down the mounting pain in his chest. _We kissed. Not even two hours ago, we kissed, and now I'll never have that again._

"No worries," he says, voice a little rough.

Check-in goes smoothly; the receptionist gives them rooms opposite one another on the fifth floor. Armie shuts the door behind himself with a relieved sigh, dropping his backpack on the bed and his suitcase on the stand.

The room's nice; light and bright and airy.

Mechanically, he starts to unpack. _I need a fucking shower._

He brushes his teeth, uses the toilet, drops his clothes on a chair and wraps a soft white towel around his waist. He starts the shower running, then sighs when he hears a knock at the door.

There's a peep-hole, and Armie stoops to it, wondering whether someone's room service has come to the wrong place. But it's Timmy in the corridor, in just his black jeans and peach t-shirt, barefoot. He's clutching his keycard in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

Armie's always fondly teased Timmy about his habit of wandering barefoot around hotels, but right now he can't focus on that—Timmy's expression is _agonised,_ biting his lip and frowning, staring at the floor.

 _What the fuck's wrong?_ Anxiety flares in Armie's chest and he pulls open the door. "Tim? Are you okay?"

Timmy looks up, meeting Armie's eyes; and then his gaze slips down again, to Armie's shoulders and chest, to the towel wrapped around his hips.

He blinks, and takes a breath. For a second he hesitates, as if he's about to turn away, apologise awkwardly—

Those bright green eyes meet Armie's again, and the small frown between his brows seems carved there; he looks bothered, _scared_ — "Armie," he says, his voice shaking.

There's that New Yorker's stress on the _r,_ the pronunciation that Armie's loved for years, and Tim steps into the room, reaching out and up to Armie, a bruising kiss that both takes him by surprise and doesn't, at the very same time—

Armie kicks the door shut, and wraps his arms around Timmy's waist.

Timmy's hands are on his hipbones, and Armie's steered backwards into the bathroom; he pushes his hands up under Timmy's t-shirt, a long slide up his back, and Timmy puts his arms up so that it can be _off, off, off—_

Armie's fingers shake as they grapple with Timmy's fly; all buttons because _of course, trust Tim to wear some fancy brand of jeans with a gimmicky fly and fuck, this is happening_ and Timmy's still kissing him, frantically, hands on his shoulders, his arms, his chest, pushing Armie back against the glass wall of the shower.

He pauses once the fly's finally undone; unsure. Impatiently, Timmy pushes the jeans and boxers down himself, and Armie doesn't look because they're still kissing but the shock of it is visceral. Timmy's hands are on his towel, and then there's just the brush of the fabric against his thighs, shins, feet—

Timmy pulls them under the hot spray of the shower and Armie sees him naked properly for the first time in years, pulse thundering in his ears as he watches Timmy's pale skin bloom pink in the heat of the water.

He reaches out and turns the heat down just a little but Timmy seems to fear his attention wandering, or maybe just the loss of his own momentum, because he kisses him again, jealously, desperately.

Armie worries that he's not okay.

Gently, he presses Timmy against the wall of the shower; kisses his ear, his jaw, his neck. He keeps his hand in the centre of Timmy's chest, finger and thumb a loose _v_ at the base of his neck, not allowing him to set such a frantic pace.

Timmy gives a choked-off little moan when Armie kisses his neck, and his fingernails dig crescents of gentle pain into Armie's shoulders.

Armie loves the noise, so he wraps his arm around Timmy and holds the nape of his neck, stroking the side with his thumb; Timmy shivers and gasps a quiet groan, and Armie vows to worship that place as he's always wanted to— _long and slow, in bed—_

Impatiently, Timmy pulls Armie close, skin meeting skin from chest to toe as they kiss, and the feeling of Timmy's hard cock against his thigh has Armie breathless, attempting to hold back a groan.

Timmy's tense, strung tight, fingers clutching at Armie's back, his waist, like clinging to a lifeboat in a storm.

Suddenly, as if daring himself, he slips his hand between them and wraps it around Armie's cock. Armie gasps, allowing his forehead to rest against Timmy's temple, watching the way the water runs through that long dark hair and in rivulets down his neck. The sensation is overwhelming, too much to process; _he's touching me, Tim's finally touching me—_

Timmy is insistent, seeming to try to push Armie on, always, and there's something in Armie's brain that says _he's giving and not taking._ It feels like something complicated, but in every fantasy Armie's ever had of this, he's wanted them to be close, to find pleasure _together._

He takes a breath, and pulls his hand from Timmy's neck; moves it to his jaw. Presses their foreheads together and forces a stillness. Brushes their lips across one another; resists Timmy's attempt to hasten a kiss. Licks across his lips, an echo of their beginning that makes his heart hurt. Slips his right hand between their stomachs and guides Timmy's hand to hold both their cocks at once; wraps his own hand over and between Timmy's delicate fingers.

Armie moves their hands and Timmy's eyes fly open, dark hazel-green and full of terrible vulnerability.

 _I love you,_ Armie wants to reassure him; but he knows that now isn't the moment. He kisses Timmy instead, slowly, open-mouthed, their breath catching at the building sensation between them, the rhythm of their combined touch.

Armie knows it won't take much more than this, this time; he's wanted this for years, needed Timmy for so long, but he wants to explore every inch of that skin, discover every place that makes him shiver.

"Can you come like this?" he asks, voice just a quiet vibration below the louder noise of the splashing water.

Timmy's expression is the usual cascade of information: arousal, bashfulness, humor, and Armie takes the combination to mean _of course I can, Armie, are you an idiot?_ and smiles.

He kisses Timmy again, pressing him back against the tiles, caressing his cheek. They kiss and kiss, small bites to lips, but mostly the slide of tongues and the sharing of breath, bitten-off swearwords as they roll their hips into tight, building pleasure. 

Timmy bites Armie's bottom lip and gasps, groaning. He lets his head fall back against the shower wall. "Armie—" he whispers, as if he's trying to hold back the word.

Armie stifles a groan. _Oh fuck, Tim, say my name again._ He gives him a soft smile, caught in the details of him: his freckles, his delicate lips, the flutter of his eyelashes. _You are the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life._

He bends down to burrow his lips under Timmy's jaw, kissing his neck. "Tim…you want to go to bed? Make this last? 'Cause if you do, we're going to have to take a break. I'm sorry."

Timmy groans and presses his flushed cheek to Armie's chest. "I—no, I'm sorry, I don't think I can—whatever we do, I'm—uh—"

With a hot flood of arousal, Armie realises that Timmy's close and trying to hold back too. Armie tangles his hand in his hair, pulls him up and kisses him, messily. "Good. Like this, then?"

Timmy nods. "Yes. Yes." His voice is deep and quiet. He closes his eyes and kisses Armie, more calmly this time. There's still something in him that Armie can't quite figure out; but he's almost dizzy with need.

_Make him feel good. Just—just don't be a disappointment to him, Hammer._

They move their hands together with more purpose, now, and Armie wraps his arm around Timmy's waist, pulling him close, needing him to understand—

"Oh, fuck," breathes Timmy, squeezing his eyes closed. "Armie, Armie, Armie—"

Armie can feel the rigidity of him, the way his hand tightens and speeds up; the tension thrumming through his whole body as he waits on the brink.

Armie dips his head to Timmy's neck; kisses and bites him there, and Timmy groans, the sound echoing around the tiled shower. Armie _feels_ him start to come, and the knowledge thrills through him—he follows him helplessly over the edge, biting his neck again, whispering Timmy's name into the soft pale skin he's marked up.

Timmy doesn't open his eyes until after Armie has begun to tenderly wash their hands and stomachs clean.

Timmy's eyes are hazel. "I'm in love with you," he says, his tone a mixture of helplessness and an odd resignation. He sounds _tired._

Armie touches his cheek. "I'm in love with you too. Of _course_ I am." He wants to erase the sadness and fear in Timmy's eyes.

Timmy blinks, and takes a breath. "What?"

"I love you too. Today nearly killed me. I thought—I thought—" Armie shrugs, emotion stopping his words. "Stay. Come to bed. Please."

_Please say we can be together. Please._

Timmy puts his hand over Armie's heart; pushes the other through his curls, then down over his face. His cheeks are pink, flushed with heat and exertion and shyness. "You—you too?"

_How can you be surprised by that, Chalamet? You're the most lovable person on earth._

"Think it's irrevocable at this point, Tim."

Timmy huffs a small, disbelieving laugh. "I didn't—I thought this might—fuck everything up—"

Armie shakes his head. "No. No. Stay. Please." He puts both hands on Timmy's face. "Sweetie," he whispers, smiling. "Sweet Tea."

Timmy melts against him, hugging him with everything he has. "Armie." He says it with disbelief; but there's still that little stressed _r_ that Armie loves so much. _"Armie."_ And this time his voice is pure relief.


End file.
